


it's just the fear of losing you

by goldfynches



Series: townie 'verse [2]
Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Angst, Closeted Character, College, Dennis Reynolds is a Bastard Man, Emotionally Repressed, Hurt No Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Canon, Repression, Underage Drinking, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, teen mac and dennis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25382407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfynches/pseuds/goldfynches
Summary: "are you gonna miss me when i go?"
Relationships: Mac McDonald/Dennis Reynolds
Series: townie 'verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838197
Kudos: 18





	it's just the fear of losing you

**Author's Note:**

> title from cat people by david bowie, which i wasn't intending to reference so much??
> 
> this is the night before dennis leaves for college. same 'verse as the last teen mac and dennis fic, which i'll probably make a series at this point. they're both repressed and can't have a frank (sorry) conversation about anything. short nd bitter, just like the last one.

If Dennis had wanted a party, he could’ve had a party. A real party, with kegs and noise and everyone from his class telling him how fucking cool he was. There’d be chicks who’d hang off his arms, watch him shotgun beers in the yard, get all teary-eyed when they asked him not to forget them when he leaves. Dee would whine and cry about being left out upstairs, and Frank would kick up a stink when him and mom came back from whatever weekend trip they’d decided to go on. He’d drink himself stupid and wake up with a hangover.

If he wanted a party, that was.

But Dennis didn’t want a party.

There was no point throwing a rager now, with schmucks that didn’t deserve to drink off his dime, when he’d be getting tons of that shit in college. The waiting would make it all the more worth it. No, he was fine with his goodbyes being a night in his bedroom with Mac and Charlie. It was fine, not lame at all, Dee was just a bitch who didn’t have friends that’d miss her when she trailed after Dennis to college.

He’s fine with passing around the bottle of Frank’s good scotch, lounging around on his bedroom floor, shooting the shit like they always did. It would’ve been indistinguishable from any other Saturday, if you didn’t look at the details. If you didn’t see the way Mac keeps opening his mouth like there was something he wanted to say, and the way Dennis takes two swigs from the bottle instead of one before passing it back. Charlie is the only one keeping up appearances, slumped on the beanbag, drumming his fingers on his knee and adding vague contributions to the conversation when it suits him, which is rarely. Dennis is sure it’s because Charlie had a headstart and is currently high as shit. He’ll end up passing out first, he always does.

Dennis nudges Mac with his foot, where he sits against the wall a few feet away. Mac huffs, pushes the offending appendage away.

“Are you gonna miss me when I go?”

Part of Dennis wants to see Mac’s face crumple, see him dig his nails into his palms the way he does before he starts to yell, something to fill the gaping hole in him because _ there are only two fucking people who are going to miss him _ .

Mac does none of these things. He tips back the bottle, downs a mouthful without a word of complaint. 

_ He thinks of that Bowie lyric - putting out fire with gasoline. He thinks of people splashing rum on a wound. He should’ve expected it to sting instead of soothe. _

He wipes the whisky from his lips and shrugs, a little too disjointed to appear properly nonchalant.

“A little, sure.” He smiles faintly, nervously, because it’s easier to tease than to be honest. Being honest is stupid, it hurts, it leaves you vulnerable. He thinks that’s why Dennis dances around the truth all the time.

Dennis’ face sours for a moment - and it’s brief, but it almost makes Mac flinch when he catches it - before he rolls his eyes and holds a hand out for the bottle. He doesn’t need another drink, not when he has to force his eyes to focus, but he figures he may as well go the whole nine yards. He’s celebrating.

_ Or he’s meant to be, but it feels like they’re gathered at a wake. The body of Dennis from yesterday, from the day before yesterday, from his graduation, should be sat in a rosewood box a few feet away. _

“You’re gonna miss me.” Dennis says, more like he’s trying to convince himself than Mac.

He throws back some whisky, stifles the grimace, even though he doesn’t really need to impress Mac. He drags the back of his hand across his mouth and slumps a little further down.

Mac wants to agree, because it’s true. He’s going to miss Dennis more than he could admit out loud, so much that it feels like he’s swallowed rocks and shards of glass. He wants to agree because he never wants to see that look of distaste on Dennis’ face again. 

But he doesn’t agree.

“What does it matter?”

He may as well have agreed. The weak question is an admission in itself. Dennis doesn’t take it as a victory like he should. He scoffs and tips up the bottle again. It burns in a way he can’t say feels pleasant anymore. It’s searing kerosene, filling his mouth, settling in the cracks between his teeth and crawling down his throat. He coughs this time.

“You’re so full of shit.” He chokes out, placing the bottle in the no-man's-land between them.

“Are you gonna miss me?”

For a moment, it’s like Mac didn’t say anything. Dennis doesn’t react, looking steadily at Mac, who feels like he’s watching the flame crawl down a match, nearing his fingertips.

Eventually, Dennis flops backwards, directing his burning gaze up at the ceiling instead. Mac half expects for the plaster to catch, smoulder, smoke.

“That’s a stupid question.” His tone is cool, neutral, perfectly mastered, unlike Mac’s attempts at nonchalance.

Mac, once again, opens his mouth to say something. The words won’t come.

_ It’s a dismissal. A shove out of the room, a sharp slap, sharper words. It shouldn’t hurt, he should be used to this. Gasoline on the flames, rum on the wound. _

“How is it a stupid question?” Mac has to force the words through his gritted teeth. If Dennis was looking, he’d see he got what he wanted; Mac presses the blunt edges of his nails hard into his palms, the way he does when he decides to be angry instead of upset.

The moment seems to pause for Dennis, everything hangs on the edge of a needle and he can sway it either way. He wants it to fall. He doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know if it’s really true or he just wants himself to believe it, but he doesn’t want this moment to have a safe landing. He wants to tear it apart with his bare hands, just to feel it bleed over his fingers.

_ Because if he tears apart what’s waiting for him at home, he’ll never have to come back and he’ll never have to feel guilty about it.  _

“Why would I miss you?”

Mac would’ve preferred a punch to the gut. The words leave him just as winded, but the pain is somewhere else, somewhere in his chest, sharp and cold. He doesn’t breathe for a moment.

Charlie snores from somewhere behind them.

It takes him a moment because the whisky makes the room spin, but Mac pushes himself to his feet. He drags the blanket off Dennis’ bed and takes a couple of staggering steps over to the beanbag, where Charlie’s sprawled out. Mac throws the blanket over him and calls it a job well done.

“I need a piss.” He says, to nobody in particular, because Charlie’s asleep and he’s sure Dennis is pretending he can’t hear him.

Dennis hears. He doesn’t want to. Mac’s breath hitches and he exhales shakily. He wants to call it fucking pathetic, roll over and pass out, but his mouth refuses to form the word.

_ He remembers ripping pages out of his favourite book, stuffing them into the dirt, because if it was ruined, Dee couldn’t have it, Dee couldn’t ruin it instead. Tear your own things apart so other people can’t beat you to it. Take a breath and turn off your own fucking life support. _

There are footsteps, muffled in the carpet, and then the soft click of the bedroom door being pulled shut. Dennis presses his nails into his palms. 

Mac wants to throw a fist straight through the bathroom mirror.

Dennis is leaving in the morning, and he’ll be gone for months, and Mac won’t be able to say goodbye. The word will stick in his throat, and Dennis will get in the car. Dennis won’t wave as the car pulls away. Mac will walk home with Charlie, and he’ll get drunk again.

_ But he will not fucking cry. _

Mac has never cried over Dennis Reynolds. 

**Author's Note:**

> challenge: how much can laurie project onto dennis reynolds?
> 
> comments and kudos are class, i'm @abysmalene on tumblr.


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